


Sans Vêtements

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [199]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Q (James Bond) in the Field, Sharing a Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-09-07 03:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16846363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Bond has a different relationship with nudity than most people. Of this Q is quite sure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Undressing (undressing in front of someone for the first time; one character undressing another; fumbling clumsily to get undressed, striptease). Prompt from this [generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/promptsnsfw).

Bond has a different relationship with nudity than most people. Of this Q is quite sure.

It’s not simply that the man has no shame when it comes to his body; most of the other agents that Q’s worked with are similarly blasé when it comes to stripping off in front of strangers, be they doctors, potential informants, or startled quartermasters who don’t actually need to see them position the recording device, thank you--he can trust them to follow directions.

Some of them do it, Q knows, just to get a rise out of him, so to speak, to see if they can get him to blush. 008, for a time, seemed convinced that her bare bosoms would do the trick (they did not), nor did the broad spread of 004’s Adonis-like chest, or the ebony curve of 009’s very nice thigh. No, after eight years in the service, Q was immune to the peacocking of her Majesty’s professionals in the 00 service, and rather proud of it; it was, he'd observed in training his team, a rare skill.

So that Bond will peel off his shirt after a briefing, right there in Q’s workshop, is _de rigueur_ , as is his unerringly collegial manner on such occasions. A prat he may be to Q on the comms--usually when his very life is on the line, natch--but in person, face to face or hands to skin, his treatment of Q is nothing short of proper.

No, the problem, Q finds, comes in when they’re out in the field, something that happens with a new and worrying frequency once they have a new M.

“It’s important,” M says the first time the order comes, the first time that Q bites back panic and marches past Eve to demand a reason why. “That should be sufficient, quartermaster.”

“But sir, I don’t--”

“And,” M says with a deadly sort of nonchalance, “I’m ordering you to go.” His eyes flick up from the envelopes in his hand, stiff and steady. “Unless you’d prefer not to be head of Q branch any longer. Is that it?”

That Q escape with his dignity is uncertain; that he gets out of there with his pension still intact is a cause for temporary relief.

The plane ride is awful, the airports even more so, and by the time he’s standing on the streets of San Francisco squinting into the sun, he feels disoriented and in desperate need of a drink.

He finds the hotel and checks in, drags his ass to the lift and down the bloody great hall, and collapses face first on the bed with a groan.

“My, my,” a voice says from behind him, a curled tail of amusement, “Travel really doesn’t agree with you, does it?”

“Ugh,” Q mumbles, his face still mashed in the covers, “really, Bond? I've been on a plane for eight bloody hours. Can you not give me two minutes of peace?”

Bond laughs. “I can do better than that.” He tugs at Q’s ankle, pokes at the trainers hanging over the edge of the bed. “Go drown your sorrows in the shower, eh? And then you can help me get ready.”

“For what?”

“To do my job. I’ve got dinner with our friend Mr. Kislyak in an hour, so don’t dawdle.”

“Ugh,” Q says again. He hauls himself up, feathers ruffled, ready to fuss, but--

But James Bond is standing less than two feet away wearing a white, fluffy towel.

It’s pulled tight around his hips and carefully tucked; there seems to be no danger of an imminent fall. Everything even mildly obscene is covered; indeed, the thing is so long it falls practically past the man’s knees.

So he’s shirtless, essentially, a state in which Q has seen him a half dozen times, at least, and yet in none of those instances does Q remember his own mouth running dry nor his heart pounding hard. Of course it hadn’t, he tells himself, because this is Bond, 007, the barbed one, the old, and yet somehow, the sight of the man’s damp chest, of his glistening arms, of his wet hair and his ocean-blue eyes--turned on Q now, curious--makes Q feel like his insides are alight. He looks like some half-wild sea god, does Bond, some king of the deep who’s emerged in search of new worlds to conquer, except he doesn’t seem ill at ease; no, indeed, there’s an ease in his movements, a looseness, that Q’s never seen at HQ, and god help him, it’s _fascinating_.

“Q?” A step in his direction, the stretch of one slightly wet hand. “Are you all right?”

He blinks, looks down stupidly at Bond’s fingers on his arm. “I’m fine.”

“I doubt it. You’re dehydrated, probably. Here, let me get you some--”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Q says again, shaking free of Bond’s grip, sounding to his own ears like a petulant child. “I’ll just--I’ll just use the shower, shall I?”

Bond raises an eyebrow. He’s still standing too close. “Fine. But drink some water while you’re in there. I won’t have you passing out tonight at an inopportune time.”

“Fine,” Q repeats, “fine.”

It is not fine, not then, not the whole of the weekend they’re in California chasing Putin’s favorite puppets round the Bay. Nor is it fine in Taipei or Abu Dhabi or Niamey when he’s stationed at Bond’s beck and call, for Bond never stops being beautiful, much to Q’s chagrin. Nor is he inclined to cover up.

He doesn’t parade about _sans v_ _êt_ _ements_ all the time, as Q imagines 008 might, and he isn’t showy about it either, as no doubt 004 would’ve been. But even when they don’t share a room, when their cover story doesn’t demand it, Q sees more of Bond on those brief forays than he’s ever done in all his years in the lab.

Bond hates wearing socks, for example; will peel them off with his shoes at the first opportunity and sink his bare feet to the floor with a sigh. He’s fond, though, of leaving on his tie, of tugging the knot loose and opening his collar but letting the thing still hang from his throat. He favors sleeping without a shirt and--as Q discovers one morning when Bond gets up first--without shorts, too, when the mood strikes him.

Bond has the decency to be a bit embarrassed about that one, at least.

But in the day-to-day press of life in the field, it just happens, seeing Bond half-dressed, Bond with his fly open, Bond with his shirt open and his feet propped on the balcony rail, a sweating glass balanced on his chest his face turned up to the sun like a self-satisfied cat, and if these aren’t sights that Q gets used to, they’re ones he learns how to take in and then carry home: souvenirs of professional intimacy, small snapshots for him to reexamine at his leisure, snapshots of James Bond, the man.

He, on the other hand, never changes or even fiddles with his clothing anywhere in Bond’s sight. Why would he? There’s nothing about his knobby frame or city-pale skin that’s especially alluring, and besides, a state of undress is 007’s department, not his. The thought doesn’t even occur.

Ha. Except that it very much does.

That Q toils in a state of semi-incoherent lust, sometimes, safe at home, at the thought of Bond standing over him, those sharp eyes sliding down his bare skin, of the twitch of his hips as that hot, knowing gaze becomes a touch, well, he tells himself, well.

That he lies awake in the wee cold hours imagining Bond stretched out beside him, the heat of their bodies, of their breaths, tangled under the coverlet, Bond’s mouth on his moving in time with his fist, well, he tells himself, well.

That sometimes when he comes he wonders what his spunk would look like spread out on Bond’s chest, how it would feel to lean down and lap himself up, well.

That’s entirely his own affair.

At least it is until Bonn.

 

*****

It’s a last-minute trip, which is part of the problem. Bond’s in a jam and there’s no time to think; Q has to pack and go in a dash.

“Don’t worry about clothes,” M says offhandedly, careful to keep out of Q’s way. “Or any of your personal things. You’ll be back in two jiffs. Provided Bond’s not actually dead.”

Q can’t keep the snap out of his voice. “Oh, lovely, sir. What a confidence booster.”

M flicks his hand. “Tsch. There’s no need for sarcasm, Q.”

“Isn’t there?” Q slams a few drawers unnecessarily. It’s rather cathartic. “Really? I think this is the perfect bloody time for it, _sir._ ”

“Quartermaster,” M says in his _I’m the boss_ voice, the one that Eve says makes even the Prime Minister quake. “I have every confidence in your success--once you finish your juvenile and frankly unbecoming tantrum, that is.”

“My--!”

“Your flight leaves in 90 minutes. Be on it. And let’s not have another word about it, hmm?”

And then he’s gone, oozing back upstairs to hide behind his leather door, and Q has only his gadgets to yell at, only his own people to startle as he bangs his case shut and stomps off towards the lift.

“Good luck, sir,” someone calls.

“Luck,” Q snarls to no one in particular. “The service’s best weapon, eh? Is that all we’ve got? Blind fucking luck?”

The lift doesn’t answer. Neither does the startled-looking analyst inside it. It’s probably for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, so the question "What happens in Bonn?" was one that intrigued both [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl) and me. You'll find my answer in chapter 2 and can read her take on it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215918).


	2. Chapter 2

Trust Bond, he thinks, furious, shoving his perfect fake passport at the gate agent, to find a way to muck up a perfectly good piece of sub-dermal tracking equipment. A few million pounds spent in development--not to mention loads of his own goddamn time--and was does the man do the first time he wears it? Break the thing.

Only, a small, anxious voice whispers as they turn out over the Channel, all those white waves crashing blue, what if it isn’t only the tech that’s been smashed? What if it’s Bond himself?

No, he tell himself later as he fumbles for a taxi, his schoolbook German nearly foiled, it can’t be. Not hardly. If M was truly worried about Bond’s person, he’d send someone that could handle a gun, not a man with sonic screwdriver keychain and a strong preference for not getting shot.

Still, the fury of the first hours is gone, and what’s left when he reaches the flat at last, a little place tucked on the outskirts of the city, is a cold basin of worry.

Damn Bond, he thinks as he slogs up the stairs. Damn M for the dispatch, for the utter lack of compassion, for sending Q marching into a scene with almost no preparation and no real time to sketch out a plan. What if there’s blood? What if he opens the door and there’s Bond sprawled pale and sightless, shot or stabbed or whatever it is spies do to each other, all that gorgeous skin dead to Q’s touch?

The last steps are the hardest. His glasses are askew and he’s panting. Oh gods, he thinks. Oh gods.

He raps on the door, the case an anchor in his left hand. A case, he thinks in that last second, full of diagnostic boards and a clever VPN device, a speaker in case he needs to tie in to his staff at HQ. But what if Bond is in fact bleeding out just a few feet away, inside? He can’t do a damn thing about it. He didn’t even bring a band-aid.

So wrapped up is he in his own fears that he doesn’t hear the door open, doesn’t see the man standing there gripping the doorframe until said man is polite enough to cough.

“Ow,” Bond says with a wince. “Fuck, that smarts.”

He’s wearing dark gray trousers that probably cost more than Q’s entire wardrobe, these charcoal-colored things that cling and hang in equally perfect proportion, along with an unbuttoned white shirt. And he’s clutching something against his side beneath it, pressing it with some fervor to his ribs--ah, an ice pack. He is, for all intents and purposes, not bloody well dead.

“What happened?” Q says. It comes out more as a wheeze.

Bond squints. “What’s it look like? I fractured a couple of ribs. Or rather, some idiot on the Kremlin’s payroll did it for me.”

“No,” Q says. His stomach’s doing a forward roll and his heart’s hammering. Best then to ignore them both. “What happened to my equipment?”

“Your equipment?”

“Your tracker. It’s been offline for 12 hours. And no one at HQ’s heard from you.”

Bond steps aside, incredulous, and makes room for Q to come in. “I’ve been a little busy, Q, and in no need of help. I don’t generally go in for nursemaids.”

“I’m not here as a nursemaid, I’m here for my--”

“Tech, yes, so you said. Huh. It was a new thingymabob, wasn’t it? The one you insisted on jabbing into my side.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” Bond says, easing over to the settee, “that explains it.”

Q feels like he’s twelve steps behind. “Explains what?”

Bond sits down gingerly, his smile turning momentarily tight. “Why you’re here. Surely you didn’t brave the friendly skies just for me.”   


“M sent me.” He isn’t sure why he says it, but it seems terribly important to get it out. “When the tracker didn’t come back online after six hours. He made me come.”

He can see the quip scoot over Bond’s lips. See him swallow it. “Well,” Bond says, “so long as you’re here under duress. God forbid you pretend to enjoy my company.”

There’s a tinge of outrage now, annoyance creeping up and over Q’s relief. “You really think I’d subject myself to the indignities and especial dangers of modern air travel just to be in the same room with you?” he spits. “My god, Bond, does your ego know no bounds?"

Bond chuckles, his face twisting straight after. “Ugh. Don’t make me laugh, Q. It’s bad for my current health.”

“Bugger your current health!”

“Don’t get mad at me because M’s making you do your job.”

Q barks out a laugh. “My job? My  _ job _ ? Nothing about this is my job! I am not a field agent, damn it. I bloody well don’t belong anywhere farther flung than Hyde Park! Why M insists on chucking me out here with you, I have no earthly idea, but you can bet I’ll have words with him when I get back.”

“Oh, will you,” Bond says calmly, like people threaten his boss to his face every day. Maybe they do. “Do tell me when; I’d love to watch. Maybe you could sell tickets. I bet Eve could help you with that.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Neither are you.”

“I thought you didn’t need any.”

Bond sits up a little, waggles a hand at what Q can now see is the awful bruised wonder of his side.“I don’t, but since you’re here, you can help me tape these up, can’t you. It’s harder to do than I remembered, doing the work oneself. And feel around for the remnants of your tracker thing in the meantime.”

The deep indigo of Bond’s skin is awful; it makes Q’s own ribs ache just to see, a car crash of color, and all he can manage is: “What?”

“Tsk,” Bond says. “You’re repeating yourself. Go on, there’s some things by the kitchen sink. Bring them here.” Bond’s mouth curls. “Though you may want to put your case down first.”

There’s a tea towel by the sink and a half-defrosted bag of peas; a turn of Ace bandage and a small pair of scissors. Q scoops up the lot and realizes that his hands are shaking; he can practically feel the adrenalin he’s been running on oozing out of his pores. Bond is here, he tells himself, and he’s not dead and he’s a prick and he broke Q Branch’s newest fucking equipment and he’s hurt, Bond is, mortal: a 00 god brought crashing to earth. 

It’s not that Q thinks of agents as superheroes or something; he damn well knows that they’re not. His first year on the job, he’d been on the comms when 003 was killed in Sao Paolo, caught off guard by an informant with a knife, double-crossed right at the moment of death, and Q had heard it, every word, every curse, every wet, painful breath, the sound of the agent’s assassin laughing as she walked away, whistling loud enough for the comm mike to hear.

But there’s something about Bond being injured that feels especially galling. He should know better than to get caught out unawares, for one thing; he probably had a decade on whichever of Putin’s goons he’d encountered--surely he could outwit one of them. Maybe the time’s really come: maybe the old man’s losing his touch.

He’s also beautiful in a battered brass sort of way. It may not have been by choice, but Q knows what that part of Bond is supposed to look like, that tanned skin playing with scars. It shouldn’t be the color of eggplant; it shouldn’t look like every breath hurts. He’s seen water running down those ribs and sweat, felt the lines of those bones only a few days ago as he kneaded at Bond’s side gently, looking for just the right spot. His fingers have been where those bruises are and that’s what belongs there on the old lion’s skin: Q’s hand, caressing, not some damn fool’s iron fist.

“Q?” Bond calls. “You alright in there? Did you fall in?”

Q’s fingers are tingling. Perhaps that’s just the frozen peas. He takes a deep, steadying breath. “Not yet.”  
  


*****  
  


They have a go at on the couch first. It’s quite a disaster.

“If you keep mucking about,” Bond says through clenched teeth, his arms unsteady in the air, “I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Q snorts. He’s bent so far forward from his low perch on the coffee table that his face is practically on Bond’s chest. His hands are stiff and he’s succeeded only in getting the damnable bandage tangled up behind the stretch of Bond’s back and wrenched in the tails of his shirt. “If you’d stop moving around like a disaffected horse, James, I’d be finished already. Lean forward.”

“No.” A grumble, one that rushes straight through Q’s hair. “I told you, damn it. It hurts.”

“You are such a child.”

“Says the boy with no broken ribs.”

“I thought they were fractured.”

“Same difference.”

“Hardly.” He looks up, glasses falling down his nose. “Please tell me you’re not looking for a sympathy vote.”

The back of the bloody couch is in the way, is the thing, and he’s precisely the wrong fucking height, and any thrill it held to touch Bond in those first few minutes have long since zipped straight away.

He makes one last attempt, tugging the thing around in a flourish, but it’s not tight enough and it slips and Bond’s good arm flies down and shoves him away.

“Maybe I should do it,” Bond says. There’s a line of sweat on his brow. “Give me the thing and let me--”

Q’s quicker. Q’s also uninjured. Speed’s not a skill he should count on. “If you were just up a bit higher, I think it would work.”

“You think.”

“Yes, I do.”

Bond stares at him, eyes narrow, his face that same sickly pale. God, Q thinks, a born-again sympathy; the man’s really hurt. “Only one place I can think of.”

“What’s that?”

Bond tips his head towards a closed door at the back. “Why don’t I sit at the edge of the bed?”

Which is how Q ends up on his knees in front of James bloody Bond, watching the man divest himself at last of his shirt.

“Let me help you,” Q says as Bond grimaces, twists.

“No,” Bond snaps. “Shut up. I’m fine.”

He isn’t, of course, and they both know it, but Q keeps his mouth closed. Plays along.

When Bond is bare, Q comes up on his knees and plucks the overworked bandage from the coverlet. Tries his luck. “Lean forward,” he says.

Bond does slowly, creaking, pushing off of his palms and shifting his weight. “Can I put my arms on your shoulders?” he asks.

Q blinks. Blinks again. “What?”

Bond’s voice is thready. “An odd request, I know, but I think it would help.”

“Yes,” Q says, a touch too quickly. “Sure. Yes.”

Their weight settles on him and he can’t look anywhere but his own hands. Hands that are unwinding the whole bloody mess and starting over, searching for the beginning, for one tattered end. 

“Go on,” Bond says, as if he can feel Q hesitating. “Get it done.”

It’s much easier now, without Bond’s shirt in the way. Easier and harder because he’s not annoyed anymore; that smokescreen has fled. Now it’s just him and the hammer of his heart and Bond’s fingers curled in the back of his shirt, in the damp part just at the top of his spine, just below the line of his neck. And Bond’s not saying anything, either, no cursing or wheezing or worse. He’s simply sitting there still, warm and broken under Q’s palms, breathing carefully in and in and out.

“What good will this do?” Q says.

“Hmm?”

He winds the line around again. “Wrapping you up like a sausage. What good will it do? This can’t have any practical value.”

“The idea is that it’ll keep everything from shifting around, though I suppose the preferred way is tape these days. But I’ve always found bandaging more effective. And a lot less tricky to apply one’s self. So I suppose its only value is practical, I’m afraid.”

“Did they teach you this on the first day of spy school?” Q says. “Self-Administered Emergency Care 101?”

“I think they saved that for day three.”

Q clips the bandage, one end to the rest. Smooths his fingers over the width of it, the flutter of Bond’s stomach underneath. “Ah, well. Not quite so important, then.”

Then Bond’s hands are cupping the back of his neck and clutching the ends of his hair and Q is all at once aware of how close they are, how greedy he feels now that Bond’s let him touch.

“Q,” Bond says, very quietly.

“Bond.”

“You did pick the most inconvenient time to make me want to kiss you.”

He looks up, startled, and Bond’s there, right bloody there, cut lip and blue eye and all. “Did I?”

“Oh, yes. I’m almost impressed.” A smile. “It’s absolutely fucking terrible, your timing.”

His palms are sliding up Bond’s chest, easy, and he’s suddenly very grateful that his hips are pressed to the edge of the bed. “You want to kiss me?”

Bond’s lids flicker. “I believe that’s what I said.”

“But you’re not going to. Is that it?”

“No.” The word seems to hurt. “Not today.”

He draws his nails under Bond’s arms, tangles them on the heat of Bond’s back. “Why not?”

“Because,” James Bond says, “kissing you deserves my full fucking attention and I’m afraid that today, that ship has sailed.”

Bond’s head is bent and Q’s is tilted and all it would take, Q thinks, half-drunk now, dreamy, is for one of them to give a handful of centimeters one way or the other and oh, christ, what a kiss: Bond’s hands in his hair proper and him scoring the long planes of the man’s back and Bond rutting against him none too gently, his legs wrapped around Q’s hips, and after that--

“I’m fine,” Bond murmurs. His breath on Q’s cheek. “You’ve seen that for yourself. Now run along home and assuage M’s fears, hmmm?”

“What about you? You’re hardly fit to be out here alone.”

“Q, this is Bonn, not Pyongyang. Another day or two and I’ll be back in the headmaster’s office being told off for being an idiot, undoubtedly.”

“And deservedly so.”

“Mmm, well. It happens to all of us, when we’re old enough. We all have bad days.”

Q presses their foreheads together and curves his hands around James’ face. He’s grinning like a damned fool, he knows it. He’s never wanted anyone so much in his life. “You’re sure I can’t kiss you?”

“I’m sure you can.” Bond’s voice is delightfully breathy. “But I do wish you wouldn’t.”

“No, you don’t.”

Bond makes a soft sound, a cousin of pain, only sweeter. “Q.”

“Bond.”

“Humor me, hmm? Just this once. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“All right,” Q whispers in the slip of space left between them. “All right.”

 

*****  
  


The flight home is--well, he doesn’t remember any of it, frankly. It gets him safely from A to B. Gives him time to remember the hum of Bond’s skin, the way that last little smile had pleasantly creased the man’s face.

He wanders back to the office still in a daze and it’s only when he’s faced with M’s frown that he realizes he never found hide nor hair of his device.

“Bond was hurt rather badly,” Q tells him. It’s not a lie. “I’ll examine him again once he’s back on home soil.”

That’s not a lie either. He hopes.

*****  
  


Two days slide by, then a third with no word, and by the morning of the fourth, his anticipation has ticked up towards anxiety. His desire is starting to feel like a stone.

He’s cross on the Tube, grumbly, and so lost in himself that he doesn’t hear his mobile until its bleating has pissed off the whole sleepy carriage.

“Yes?” he snaps. He doesn’t recognize the number.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Bond?” His heart does an ridiculous cartwheel. “Where are you? Where the hell have you been?”

“I’m texting you an address,” Bond says. He sounds like a cat who’s had a four-course canary. 

“An address? James, I’m on my way to work. I can’t just ring off for the hell of it. Even for you.” He doesn’t believe a damned word that he’s saying. It’s hard to when he’s grinning this wide.

“What if I ask very nicely?” 

“You can do that?” Q’s phone beeps obediently:  _ message received. _

“What do you want me to say?” There’s a stretch of sound, something rather like a purr. “Please?”

“Yes,” Q says, nudging his way towards the doors, towards the promise of a taxi. “That’s helping.”

Bond chuckles. “Is it now? I shall have to remember that.”

Q scrubs at his mouth, trying to bring his smile in line. It’s far too much for six in the morning. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Fine, but don’t dawdle, Q.” He can hear the man smirk. “Please.”  
  


*****  
  


The address is in Mayfair. The houses are lovely. Q doesn’t really register any of it. All he sees is the number on the house and the path from the sidewalk and then he’s pressing the bell, leaning on it, hearing it resonate beyond the door, deep inside.

His heart’s pounding now like it was in Bonn, but not out of fear this time, or dread. This time, he’s not worried about finding broken bones or a bloodied body because he knows what lies on the other side of this door are James’ hands and James’ mouth and the sense of something between them that’s grown heated and lovely after all these damnable years.

“My god,” Bond says. “You took your time, didn’t you?”

A grin and then he’s hauled in and then Bond lets him go, take a measured step back.

“Are you sure about this?” Bond asks. He’s wearing a dark blue jumper and black slacks and no shoes and a slightly wary expression that makes Q’s foolish heart ache. “I did rather bully you over here. Are you sure that you still want to--?”

“God, yes,” Q says.

They stare at each other for a moment. Two.

“Q.”

“Bond.”

“Would you think me terribly forward if I took you upstairs?”

“That depends,” Q says. “Are you planning to take me to bed?”

Bond makes a soft, strangled sound. “Yes. If that’s something you want.”

Q drops his bag and tugs off his coat. Leaves the whole mess in a pool at his feet. “Presumptive of you, don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely.” A flash of teeth. “Except we’ve been there before, haven’t we? In a manner of speaking.”

“Well, if you--”

“Q,” Bond says, very patiently, “if you don’t shut up and come with me this instant,  I’ll be forced to kiss you right here.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Another step. “Nothing, in theory. Except that if I kiss you, I’ll want to touch you. And if I touch you, believe me, I’ll want...other things.”

Q swallows, tries to keep his chin up, even as his shoulders find the wall, as Bond presses close. “And? Is that meant to dissuade me? Your rhetorical skills could use some polish, James.”

“And I’m old and injured, sweetheart.” Blue eyes turn to his, full of ne’er-do-well guile. “You wouldn’t want me to get hurt worse, would you, by trying to make you feel good?” 

“You are so full of shit,” Q says, breathless, and Bond laughs. Laughs and grabs his hand and pulls him up the stairs, stumbles, shoves him through an open door and onto the bed and when Bond lays over him, his knees hot on either side of Q’s hips, then and only then does Q get the kiss he’s been promised, he’s been greedy for, and god, oh god, is it good.

Bond’s mouth is hot and hungry and jesus, he’s loud about it, how much he likes kissing Q. He groans when their tongues touch and curses when their hips meet and sighs when Q hikes up his sweater to stroke the curve of his back, to trace the edge of his bandage still wrapped tight around Bond’s middle. He’s still tender there, too.

“Sorry,” Q murmurs, nuzzling the turn of Bond’s cheek.

“It’s alright.”

“Is it?”

“More or less.” Bond nips at Q’s lip. “Believe it or not, I had a good nurse.”

Later, Q thinks, there’ll be time for him to fall on his knees again, for him to spread Bond’s legs and bite kisses along the soft skin of his thighs. There’ll be time for Bond’s hand in his hair, guiding, for his voice in the morning air, telling Q what he likes, what he wants until he can’t talk anymore, until he’s too busy fucking Q’s mouth to make words. There’ll be time, then, for them to kiss again, for Bond to suck the taste of himself from Q’s tongue and press the tips of his fingers to the eager place behind Q’s balls and enter him, gently, slide in until Q is tight around him, all sweet greed and heat. There’ll be time for Q to come with Bond’s voice in his ear as those long fingers piston, as Bond tells him how pretty he looks jerking off and how good he’s going to feel when Bond fills him properly, gives Q the weight and shove of his cock--but for now, now, in the bright morning tumble of Bond’s bed, fully clothed, it’s enough to be kissed by this man, covered by him, to feel Bond’s smile turned tight against his own.

“Bond,” he says.

“Hmmm?” A low suck on his neck.

“Would you do something for me?”

Bond’s hips roll, stiff heat against heat. “I’d do many, many somethings for you, darling. Pick one.”

Q kisses Bond’s temple, whispers: “Take off your shirt.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sans Vêtements (Alternate Ending)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215918) by [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl)




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